


Trust Me

by Saetha



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, bc those two have everything, but there's also cuddliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin and Dwalin are on their way home when they suddenly get attacked by orcs. The fight brings up old memories and neither of them escapes unscathed. A long night lies ahead...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Me

**Author's Note:**

> Because there can never be enough of my favourite brOTP/OTP. Originally posted at [my Tumblr.](http://heart-of-erebor.tumblr.com/post/77634776673/fanfic-trust-me)

"Thorin!"  
  
The bellow of Dwalin’s deep voice was unmistakable. Without thinking, Thorin reached for the hilt of his sword with his right, quickly pouring water over the glowing embers that still remained from their earlier fire (and, rather regrettably, also the last remnants of their evening meal) with his left hand. His eyes still adjusting to the darkness around him and trying to separate the shape of trees from living beings, he set off in the direction of his companion’s shout.  
  
He could hear the dull thump of iron hitting flesh and high screeching filling the air before it was abruptly cut off. With a curse on his lips, Thorin forced himself to run faster, berating himself for letting his guard down too much. It had been a long day working at the forges in the village and probably not the best decision to cover part of the distance to their home before they settled down for the night. The weariness had settled in their bones and lulled their senses.  
  
Dwalin had thankfully only strayed a short distance from their fire. He had wanted to gather some more wood in order to keep them warm throughout the night. Thorin’s heart sank when his eyes could make out the shapes moving in front of him - orcs, and quite a number of them at that. For a moment it looked they were all caught up in a grotesque dance before one of Dwalin’s battle axes found its aim in the neck of one of his foes about to take his arm off.  
  
The tall dwarf was bleeding from a wound on his forearm already, but at the moment the cut didn’t seem to be of any hindrance. Without a second thought Thorin threw himself into the fight, his sword joining into the rhythm with Grasper and Keeper. Dwalin’s movements changed ever so slightly, adopting the fighting stance the two of them had perfected over the years. No words were needed, their bodies moving in absolute unison after years of practise together, lashing out and drawing back, decimating their enemies one after another.  
  
Thorin felt himself being drawn into the frenzy, the thrill of battle slowly filling his veins. Nobody who hadn’t experienced it could ever truly understand; it was a knowledge flowing through their blood, forging a bond between fighting comrades stronger than any words would have ever been able to.  
  
He plunged his sword into the belly of an approaching orc, sending the creature down to the ground. Behind him, Dwalin smashed his knuckles into the face of another one of their enemies, recovering the axe he had buried in a different face earlier with the same swift movement. Thorin took off the head of the one Dwalin had just stunned with his punch before he could recover and cause them any more trouble. For a short moment, they had time to catch a breath before the next wave of foes was coming at them. Under his breath, Thorin quietly thanked Mahal that this orc pack didn’t have any wargs with them - fighting several of the large beasts with only the two of them would’ve been an almost impossible task.  
  
Worry started creeping up inside him when his eyes darted around the trees, trying to discern how many of their foes were left. He could feel Dwalin’s presence in his back, every bit as tense as himself. They would have no problem taking out a few more additionally to the seven already scattered around them, but he knew that some packs could be as large as twenty or more. He was breathing rapidly, trying to ignore the aching of his muscle slowly making its way into his consciousness. Now they were paying the price for not nearly enough sleep or food but all the more work during the last week. The momentary excitement had made them careless, had overruled any other signal their tired bodies were sending them. Dwarves were a hardy people and could endure long beyond any measure of other races, but even their strength wasn’t unlimited.  
  
A shriek pulled Thorin’s mind firmly back into the present and the second wave of attackers closing in on them. There would be enough time to curse himself later. Ignoring the little voice in his head whispering “if there is a ‘later’”, he brought his sword down in a mighty arc, slicing one of the orcs nearly in half. He could hear Dwalin cursing in rather filthy Khuzdul and was of a mind to agree with him when he saw number of those foul creatures left. Too many, far too many.  
  
He pushed his tiredness aside, buried it under the familiar anger boiling up inside him whenever he looked into he faces of his most hated foes. Evoking even a single one of those images from Azanulbizar he would never forget was enough to set his blood on fire and sweep away all the aches in his body. The faces of his fallen friends, lifeless eyes full of pain and accusation seemed to urge him on, to shout at him to kill them all. With a cry he took a step forward, ready to let his blade greet his foes.  
  
Thorin didn’t remember much of what followed; the images in his head were blurring together into a single stream of black, grey and red flashing before his eyes and the steady, reassuring presence of Dwalin at his side, anchoring him to this world and keeping him from getting lost in the past.  
  
When his sight finally cleared again, he found themselves surrounded by dark shapes that marked the corpses of the orc pack. With the relief to have made it out alive, exhaustion came rushing back into his body, demanding the payment for over-exerting himself. It was all he could do to keep himself from toppling over by leaning on the hilt of his sword.  
  
Dwalin raised his eyebrows.  
  
"You’re getting old."  
  
Thorin shot the darkest scowl in his direction which he was capable of.    
  
"Let’s see how you would fare if you’d spent the past twelve hours doing two men’s worth of work at the forge instead of carrying around wood all day…"  
  
His friend snorted, but was unable to hide the tiredness in his eyes. Thorin gave him the slightest of grins and suppressed a grunt of pain when he stretched out. He hadn’t even noticed that an orcblade had caught him in the shoulder. Dwalin’s eyes narrowed.  
  
"How bad is it?"  
  
Thorin kept himself from shrugging at the last moment, just shaking his head instead.  
  
"Not life-threatening though I should probably stop the bleeding soon. Your arm?" He nodded at the gash he had noticed at the beginning of the fight.  
  
Dwalin looked at the wound as if he’d only just realised that it was there.  
  
"Should be fine once we wash it out and wrap it up. It’s not too deep. Let’s get back and get our packs."  
  
They made their way back to what was left of their encampment for the night. Later, Thorin blamed what followed on their exhaustion. It was the only possible reason how they couldn’t have noticed.  
  
Two orcs jumped out of the bushes on their Dwalin’s, lips drawn back in a snarl as madness glinted in their eyes. The thought _We should’ve checked if they were all dead before just walking off_ flashed through Thorin’s head before he could recover his wits enough to bring up his sword again, ignoring the screaming protest from his shoulder. Dwalin had been the shadow of a thought faster than him, axes already in his hands. The fight was short, but a narrow call; it cost them all but the remaining ounces of their strength to defeat the last of their attackers.  
  
Thorin staggered slightly and turned to Dwalin who hadn’t moved since Keeper had crushed his enemy’s skull. He caught his friend’s gaze, his eyes quietly asking if he was alright. Dwalin gave a barely perceptible nod and the two of them set off to find the remnants of their fire again, hoping no stray animals had made a mess of their packs yet.  
  
The first clue that something was wrong came only a few moments later. Dwalin stumbled over a log and Thorin caught him without thinking to keep him from falling. The second clue was the warm wetness suddenly spreading over his skin. It took a moment for the conclusion to reach his mind. Ignoring Dwalin’s weak attempt to slap his hand out of the way, he pushed aside the layer of fur to reveal the ripped cloth underneath, stained with an alarming amount of blood.     
  
Thorin’s breath caught in his throat. For a split second, it wasn’t Dwalin in front of him. His shape was overlaid with Frerin’s, eyes wide, hand stretched out in the last moments of his life, reaching for a brother who was far away, too far to help. His own mind was screaming out at the sight, begging. _No, no, no, please, not again, no…_  
  
"Thorin." His friend knew exactly what he saw and the deep rumble of his voice, now etched with pain, was the weight pulling him back into this world.  
  
The exiled king took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a brief moment, forcing the images back into the darkest corners of his mind where he knew they would lie waiting until they could attack again. He knew he’d have to look after Dwalin’s injury as soon as possible, but he needed the light of a fire to do so. He slipped his healthy shoulder under the tall dwarf’s arm, pretending to be too weak to walk alone and thus giving him the opportunity to lean on him. It said a lot about his state that Dwalin didn’t even comment on such an action, but rather quietly accepted the help offered.  
  
Thankfully their improvised resting place for the night was close by and had remained largely undisturbed by wild animals. Thorin rekindled the fire, all the while watching Dwalin worriedly. His friend remained silent, even when he was ushered by his king to lie down so he could examine the damage. Thorin didn’t ask during which part of the fighting Dwalin had sustained his wound (likely the very last attack by the two survivors), knowing that his friend wouldn’t dignify it with an answer. It was probably a bad enough blow to his pride that he had gotten himself hurt in the first place.  
  
The wound was deep enough to make him worry. As far as he was able to tell the Orcish blade had sliced cleanly through skin and muscle and slipped off the ribs, thus thankfully avoiding greater damage. But the bleeding was strong and although they were almost midway to their homes they had almost half a day’s travel ahead of them until they would reach their settlement. He would have to close up the wound somehow.  
  
With a sigh, Thorin took the last clean shirt out of his pack and threw it to his companion. He ignored the whispers in his head telling him that it was too late, that he would only prolong the inevitable, that no one under his protection would ever survive for long. He wouldn’t give into them. He couldn’t.  
  
"Slow down the bleeding. I’ll see if I can find a needle and some thread. I’m sure Dís packed a sewing kit in here somewhere, she always does…"  
  
Dwalin did as he was told, watching quietly and slightly amused whilst Thorin set a pot of water to boil and spread almost his entire possessions on the ground before he finally found the small leather pouch containing three differently-sized needles and several roles of thread in different colours.  
  
"Red or green?"  
  
It was so rare that his friend made an attempt at a joke nowadays that Dwalin couldn’t help but chuckle.  
  
"Blue, if you don’t mind. Will go nicely with the bruises further up."  
  
Thorin smiled briefly and set to re-organise his belongings whilst waiting for the water to boil. At least they (or, more likely, Dís) had been wise enough to pack some fresh bandages. Using the edges of the clean shirt that hadn’t been bled through and the water he carefully cleaned up the wound, trying to ignore Dwalin’s sharp intakes of breath that spoke of the pain he felt and the hurt in his own shoulder.  
  
Without a word he offered Dwalin a strap of hardened leather that had once been part of someone’s belt. They had nothing else to help with the pain.  
  
"Ready?" His voice was a little too deep and too raw as to not betray the worry raging inside him.  
  
The warrior only nodded. Gritting his teeth, Thorin set to work. Focusing solely on the movements of his fingers and blending out everything around and inside him, he couldn’t help but think that Óin would likely berate him for his sloppy work. His skills at sewing were rather mediocre. The healer was right - it was much easier to cause a wound than to mend it. Maybe he should ask Dori about some advice once they got back. He had a mind for such fine handiwork.  
  
The strip of leather was nearly bitten through when he was finished. Dwalin didn’t offer a single word of complaint, but the slight trembling of his hands and ashen colour of his face betrayed his condition. Glad to find that the wound on his forearm was indeed nothing more than a shallow cut, Thorin quickly cared for it. Dwalin’s voice was so quiet when he was finished that he almost didn’t hear it.  
  
"Your shoulder?"  
  
Thorin grimaced and almost wished Dwalin hadn’t reminded him since paying attention to it somehow seemed to make the pain even worse. With careful movements he took off his overcoat and shirt, hoping very much that his sudden light-headedness was not so much due to blood loss as to simple exhaustion. At least it was a warm night so that they didn’t have to worry about freezing.  
  
His wound probably needed stitches as well, but he saw no way of doing them himself without making the damage even larger. And although he would never admit it, Dwalin in his current state wasn’t any help either. Therefore, he left it at using the rest of the hot water to clean himself up, putting a piece of folded cloth directly on top of the wound and wrapping it with bandages as tightly as possible. The problem with having used his last clean shirt as wash cloth and blood stiller was that he now had to drag his filthy, blood encrusted piece of clothing back on. He mused that he should probably improvise a sling for his arm to keep himself from moving it too much, but the thought got lost as another wave of tiredness hit him.  
  
"You should sleep." Dwalin’s voice was still barely audible, cracking under pain and exhaustion.  
  
"No. One of us has to keep watch. What if there’s more of them out there?"  
  
Hurt and tired as he was, Dwalin still had enough strength left in him to snort derisively.  
  
"As if you or me are in any condition to fight right now. Let’s hope that for once, the Maker’s smiling on us and that we’ve used up all our bad luck for tonight already. Sleep, Thorin."  
  
Strange, the last words reminded him of his mother, how she used to sit at his bedside when he was but a young dwarfling, her hand softly stroking his head, quiet voice whispering away all his fears of nightmares and commanding him to sleep.  
  
He knew that Dwalin was right. Neither of them would be able to defend themselves against even a single orc right now and they needed to collect strength for the next day. He simply had to hope that the smell of blood wouldn’t attract any wild wargs or other unsavory creatures. Somewhere in the middle of the last thought sleep wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket.  
  
***  
  
The sun had already risen high above the horizon when he opened his eyes again. Thorin cursed; normally he was awake at first light, a habit deeply ingrained into his body from years of wandering. To his dismay he had to admit that this also meant that Dwalin had been right: he had needed sleep. His first action was to check on his friend. The warrior was still asleep, but at least the bandages hadn’t completely bled through and there was a faint semblance of colour back in his face. They would have to set off soon, however, if they wanted to reach their home before nightfall.  
  
Thorin risked a glance under his shirt at his own wound. The sharp pain in his shoulder had dulled down into a numb pounding as long as he didn’t move his arm too much, but there was still a worrying amount of blood that he seeped through the bandages at night. He would have to rewrap it more tightly and make his way straight to Óin’s once they were back.  
  
He didn’t want to wake Dwalin yet, so he tried to suppress any noise when he took off the bandages. Somehow the hours of sleep seemed to have sharpened his senses and when he began to rewrap the strips of linen, he could taste the copper saltiness of blood in his mouth from biting his lip one too many times. The task took up all his attention so that he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching from behind.  
  
His heart jumped into his throat when gentle fingers took the bandage from his hands. With a quick movement that made his shoulder scream in pain he reached for his sword and turned around only to find Dwalin’s shape towering behind him.  
  
The warrior met his gaze, disapproval oozing from every inch of his face. With a sigh and a pained groan he lowered himself to the ground again.  
  
"Hold still." he grunted. With practised movements he set to winding the bandage tightly around his king’s shoulder.  
  
"I-" Thorin bit his tongue. What was he supposed to say? _You shouldn’t_ likely wouldn’t even be dignified with an answer, _No thank you, I can manage_ was clearly wrong and he would rather cut out his own tongue before admitting that _For a moment yesterday I feared you would die and the thought almost left me paralysed_. As so often before, he found himself at a loss for words whilst a storm of emotions was raging inside him. Guilt for not being able to protect those with him, anger and shame at his own weakness and the fear of once again losing someone entirely too close to him. His fingers were bloody once again and he could feel how the memories lurking in the back his mind threatened to come forward and choke him. _Brother…_  
  
Dwalin slapped him on the shoulder. Not the injured one, thank Mahal.  
  
"We need to get moving."  
  
The look in his eyes spoke volumes, somehow gazing right down into the whirling maelstrom that was the bottom of his soul. Though still far from it’s usual strength, the pressure of his hand on his skin was steady, a firm presence somehow convening trust, understanding and the quiet reassurance that no forgiveness was needed without a single word.  
  
Thorin nodded.  
  
"Thank you." Both knew he meant more than the help with his injury.  
  
His companion smiled briefly before he returned to their packs to salvage the last bits of food they had left. They would eat on their way.  
  
Thorin insisted on carrying most of Dwalin’s possessions. Of course the tall dwarf refused, but Thorin left him no choice, hefting both bundles over his uninjured shoulder. Though his friend was seemingly able to stand and walk on his own, his movements were still careful and much slower than usual, speaking of the pain rushing through his body with every step.  
  
At least the weather seemed to take pity on them - though rain was frequent in these parts of middle earth, the sun was making one of her rare appearances this day and the path they were on was easy enough to walk.  
  
They were usually quite content in walking in complete silence. It was never uncomfortable between them, but rather another part of their bond, something that they shared and valued. Thorin was in no mood to talk, anyway; his mind was still in an uproar over what had happened. After a few hours at what he reckoned must’ve been about half the day’s journey, he slowed down and beckoned Dwalin to show him his wound again.  
  
His friend rolled his eyes despite his heavy breathing.  
  
"I’m okay, Thorin. There’s no need for you to beat yourself up over what happened. Warriors get injured all the time in battle. It’s our _job_ after all even if I’ve spent more time building houses than fighting those past few years.”  
  
Thorin felt his throat go raw. _No!_ he wanted to shout at him. _What kind of king am I that can’t even protect his own people let alone his friend? What kind of warrior that lets others bear the wounds that should rightly be his?_  
  
Dwalin sighed. Then he raised both his hands, grabbing his friend’s shoulders, locking his gaze with his own eyes. He refrained himself from shaking him at the last minute, knowing that it would only cause unneccessary pain in his wounded shoulder.  
  
"Thorin, listen to me. You’re a pig-headed fool of a dwarf and there’s no helping that. But I’ll be damned if I’d ever want anyone else at my side."  
  
It was his very own way of telling him that he hadn’t failed at all, neither at being a king, nor a brother, nor a friend.  
  
"And if I ever catch you again when you’re about to go off and blame yourself for every single misfortune in this world or give in to the same illness that brought down your forefathers then I promise I’ll punch all those bloody sentiments right out of your stubborn head."  
  
Thorin felt something vanish inside him, a tiny bit of the darkness in his heart breaking away and leaving only warmth behind. He smiled.  
  
"And I would be grateful, my friend."


End file.
